Robin Leaves the Nest
by Dawn's Edge
Summary: Tim Drake loves his new role as the Red Robin. What he doesn't love, however, is how everyone only views him as Batman's sidekick. He wants to change that. One evening while watching the news, Tim finds out about a recent breakout from Arkham. So what does he do? He decides to take it upon himself to track down one of the escapees...without the help of the Caped Crusader. One-Shot.


_**I do not own Tim Drake/Red Robin, the Scarecrow/Jonathan Crane, Bruce Wayne/Batman, Alfred Pennyworth, Commissioner Gordon, Summer Gleeson, or any other named criminals mentioned in this story. They all belong to DC Comics. Enjoy!**_

* * *

Tim Drake sat on the tan settee in the living room of Wayne Manor, remote in hand. He was flipping through the channels on the T.V., looking for anything of interest. Images flashed by with the clicks of a button.

As Tim was thinking about giving up his search, the perfectly made up face of Summer Gleeson, _Gotham Live's _anchorwoman, appeared on the screen. It was professionally composed but held a slight trace of worry. This caught Tim's attention. He turned the volume up on T.V. with the remote.

"...earlier this evening. The criminals involved in the breakout were Jack Napier, Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley, and Jonathan Crane, more popularly known to Gothamites as the Joker, Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, and the Scarecrow. Several others—"

Tim turned off the T.V. and stared at the dark screen.

"Tim? Was that Summer Gleeson?"

Tim looked over the back of the settee to see Bruce Wayne looking at him from the dining room table. The Sunday morning paper that the billionaire had been neglecting all day was gripped between his hands.

"Yeah," Tim replied.

"Oh. What was she reporting on?" asked Bruce, his eyes going back to his newspaper.

"Um," Tim hesitated. "I think it had something to do with new security measures at Arkham, and how it will help keep the Rogues locked in. Nothing new really," he fibbed. "Besides, the bad guys will just find some other way to escape."

Bruce looked back up from the paper, his face thoughtful. "I haven't been notified of new security measures. But regardless, Tim, what matters is that the people of Gotham will feel safer at night knowing Arkham is finally cracking down. If the criminals do manage to break out again, it's our job to bring them back in, same as always," Bruce lectured.

"Yeah," agreed Tim. "You're right. Hey, Bruce?"

"Yes?" Bruce looked back up from the paper.

"Think I could go out? Alfred got me this new skateboard, and I've been wanting to try it out." It wasn't a complete lie. Alfred _had_ given him a new skateboard, and he _had _wanted to try it out. Just not tonight.

Bruce set the paper down on the table, thinking. After a few seconds, he brought his eyes back to Tim's and nodded. "Alright, just be back at a reasonable time. I don't want to have to come looking for you on my night off. Understood?"

Tim nodded and forced a smile. "Sweet. I'll try to be back before... Hmm. How 'bout ten?"

"Nine," Bruce said bringing the paper back up to his face.

"Oh come on, Bruce! I'm like, thirteen," Tim groaned.

Bruce's eyes glared at him from over the top of the newspaper. The look on his face told Tim that the older man was really not in the mood to argue.

"Okay, okay. How 'bout nine-thirty?" Tim offered.

From behind his newspaper, the billionaire nodded. "Fine. But that means practice runs for thirty minutes longer tomorrow."

Tim nodded and said his thanks as he hopped up from the couch and bounded up the stairs to go to his room. As he climbed up the large marble stairwell, he began to feel slightly guilty for lying to his adoptive father.

Bruce Wayne taking him in as his own was the best thing to ever happen to Tim. At first it was an awkward and slightly tense relationship between him and the billionaire playboy, but once the man's secret was out, a whole new world of possibilities presented itself to Tim. In one night, he had been transformed from Tim Drake, homeless, parentless young man into the Red Robin, side—_partner_—to the Dark Knight.

But, wasn't he viewed as the sidekick? By the citizens of Gotham, and even the villains' standards, all he was seen as was Batman's plucky little helper. It didn't help that he was still a child. The original Robin, Dick Grayson, had a good five or more years on Tim by the time he had taken up the mantle. Now, he was fighting crime in the streets of Blüdhaven under his own superhero identity, Nightwing.

Tim reached the top of the marble staircase and went to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He sat on his bed and continued thinking about his status as a "hero", if he could even really be called that. Tim mentally kicked himself.

_Don't think like that! Of course you're a hero. You have your own costume. You are _amazing_ at kicking butt. You help bring in the bad guys..._

Keyword: help.

Help, as in, _assist_.

As in..._assistant_.

Assistant...as in _sidekick_.

"Ugh! I'm a freaking sidekick!" groaned Tim as he fell back onto the bed, shoving a pillow over his face. He was brought back to the breakout at Arkham, and then he was reminded of the reason why he had lied to Bruce about said breakout.

_Because I wanted—I __**want**__—to prove myself_.

Tim removed the pillow from his face and sat up straight in his bed. He—no—_Robin_, would apprehend those criminals on his own, without the help of the Caped Crusader. At least one of them. As long as he could prove he could handle one of the "Big Bads", he could reestablish his status as a hero, and not as a sidekick.

Tim was both elated and terrified. Mostly elated. He was going after one of the Rogues _on his own! _In his fit of thrilled rebelliousness, the thirteen year old failed to realize what tracking down and apprehending one of the villains would entail.

One, he would have to sneak out. Two, he would have to hurry up and do his research on which villain he was going after, which by extension meant having to choose his target wisely. And three, and probably the most important of them all, he would have to be home _by nine-thirty_.

Tim checked his watch.

**7:24**

He hurried out the door and down the hall, but slowed to a stop as he made it to the stairs. Another thing he forgot; he was supposed to be going skateboarding. Tim groaned and trotted back to his room and grabbed the brand new skateboard propped up against the closet door. Tucking the board under his arm, he opened the closet and pulled out a jacket and a book bag and left his room.

He made sure to be extra quiet going down the marble staircase. Thank goodness marble didn't creak obnoxiously like wood seemed to do in all those movies. Once at the bottom, he peeked around to his right and saw Bruce still seated at the dining table, his nose in his paper. Tim smirked and slinked down the hallway to the manor's library, choosing to ignore the large grandfather clock.

Thumbing through several volumes, he found the mock book that served as a lever. Tim took a step back as the whole bookcase slid forward several inches, and then slid to the right, revealing a secret passageway with a stone staircase winding down into darkness.

"Hello Master Tim."

Tim jerked up at the familiar voice and turned around, smiling guiltily.

"Oh, hey there Alfred. I was just—"

"Going out? Yes, I can see that," spoke Alfred, snarky as ever.

Tim's smile drooped and he hung his head in defeat. "Alright, you caught me." Tim's head snapped back up. "You're not gonna tell Bruce are you?" he asked worriedly.

"Well," Alfred began drolly. "That depends."

"On what?" asked Tim, slightly hopeful.

"On whether or not your plan involved me having to clean up after you." Alfred smiled accusingly.

Tim, despite the situation, couldn't help but grin back at the old butler. Talking with Alfred was so different from talking with Bruce. The old man was wise, like Bruce, but was much more forgiving. No wonder Bruce viewed him as a surrogate father. Lately, Tim found that he was coming to view Alfred as his own surrogate grandfather.

"No, nothing like that. I just..." he thought about what to say next, "...want to go out on my own tonight." He added, "_Without_ Bruce."

Alfred raised a white eyebrow, and Tim wasn't sure whether the old butler had understood what he'd meant. "I see," Alfred said after several seconds. The old man sighed, as if reminiscing over a fond memory. "I remember years ago having a similar conversation with another young man."

"Dick?" asked Tim curiously.

"Yes. I'm sure you're aware of what went on between him and Master Bruce those years ago." Tim nodded and Alfred continued. "You are growing up. Master Dick was in college when he decided to give up the title of Robin. However, you are starting quite a bit earlier than he had, although I must say I'm not surprised," chuckled Alfred. "You are a free spirit, Master Tim. Even more so than Master Dick."

Tim shook his head.

"No, I don't want to quit. I just want to...to..." Tim struggled with the words.

"To be seen as Batman's equal, and not his lackey?" surmised Alfred.

"Yes, that's exactly it. I love working with Batman. I couldn't be happier," he assured. "It's just that I want to make a name for myself...to show criminals _and_ people that I can hold my own." Tim's eyes drifted down to the floor between him and the aged butler.

Alfred nodded. "I understand completely. Well then, I won't keep you," Alfred said with a wave of his hand, and he turned to leave.

Tim's head snapped up to the retreating butler. "Wait, are you letting me go?" he gaped.

"To the skate park, Master Tim? I see no reason not to," replied the butler over his shoulder.

Tim watched the suited old man disappear around the corner. That settled it. Alfred was officially the coolest old dude in the world. Smiling to himself, Tim turned and stepped through the gap in the wall. He pressed a switch on the wall to his right to close the secret entrance, and all but ran down the winding steps leading to the Batcave.

He made it to the bottom of the stairs in seconds and stepped into the large cavern. Not wanting to waste even more time, he made his way to the Batcomputer and turned it on. The large screen lit up, and he entered the password. He paused when the home screen appeared.

_Who was he going after tonight?_

As much as he would love to wipe that ugly grin off the clown's face, he knew better than to target the Joker. The man alone had almost done Batman in more times than any other of the Rogues. Both Joker and Harley Quinn were out of the question. So that left either Poison Ivy, or the Scarecrow.

Tim had only fought Ivy once, and it had not been pleasant. It took him months to be able to look at anything green without puking. _And that smell..._ Tim shuddered. He did not want to go up against that green witch on his own; not yet at least. That left only one villain: the Scarecrow.

"Scaaaaaare...crooow," he spoke the name aloud as his fingers dabbed at the computer keys. He pressed the enter key, and immediately a file on Jonathan Crane popped up on the screen. Robin was surprised by the man's mug shot. He was staring at a gaunt, ticked-off looking man with tousled red hair. From what Robin could tell from his bony facial features, the man did not pose much of a physical threat. Hmm. So far this villain seemed to be the best target for a first-time solo mission. He scrolled down and skimmed through the information that the file provided.

"Hmm. Professor of Psychology...got fired...wanted revenge, blah blah blah," he read as he continued to scroll. He reached the part of the text that talked about his criminal career and M.O. It mentioned his obsession with phobias, and his gaseous concoction that brought out peoples' greatest fears.

"Fear gas, huh. Doesn't sound _that _bad," he mused. The only thing he was concerned about was the fact that he had never gone up against the ex-professor before. Sure, he had heard of the Scarecrow, but he had yet to see him in action. He only knew the vague details. Tim brought up his wrist and looked at his watch.

**7:42**

_Scarecrow it is, then._

He quickly scrolled all the way to the bottom of the page where there was a list of known hideouts. After apprehending a villain, Batman would document the location of the villain's most recent place of residence. Batman, being as thorough as he is, wanted to keep tabs on hideouts in case the villains were foolish enough to return to them after spending time in Arkham.

Ah, there it was. _Henry & Son's Manufacturing_, 5318 N. Industrial Drive. Underneath the line of text were the words **Status: Dilapidated; fire**. So, it was burned down? As in, to the ground? Or was it just charred beyond repair, but still standing and inhabitable? Whatever the case, Tim would start there. It was the only lead he had.

He quickly logged off the supercomputer and shut it down. Picking up his backpack and skateboard from the ground next to the chair, he turned and ran toward the large metal capsules on the other side of the cave. He placed his right hand on the scanner attached to the second capsule. A bright green line moved up and down from under his hand, scanning. The scanner made a small _beep_, and a small red dot turned green. Tim removed his hand as he heard the familiar clink of the lock moving out of place and opened the door to reveal his Red Robin costume.

After quickly dressing, he ran over to the cave's parking garage. He slung his leg over the seat of a red and black motorcycle and placed his book bag containing his discarded clothing and skateboard in the cycle's storage unit. To start the motorcycle, he placed his hand on the scanning device similar to the one on the capsule containing his suit. The bike's engine roared to life as Tim reached over and snagged a red helmet off a rack.

He pressed a small red button on the bike next to the scanner, and spoke the address. Once the bike's GPS was set, Tim donned his helmet and revved up the bike. Within seconds, he was speeding out of the Batcave.

_ I really hope Bruce doesn't notice the missing cycle..._ Tim thought as he sped down the dark, deserted road.

* * *

The Scarecrow was currently hunched over, inputting the combination to the small safe in the wall. He was standing on the second floor of the old manufacturing warehouse. After his last encounter with the Batman, the warehouse had somehow caught fire in the tussle, destroying nearly everything inside. Both costumed men barely escaped with their lives. Luckily, the small fire-proof safe, which had been hidden by a painting, remained untouched. Or so the masked villain hoped.

A loud whooshing sound cut through the still air, followed by a _thunk _as a piece of shrapnel embedded itself into the charred wall mere centimeters from the Scarecrow's head. The sound caused the villain to jump back a step. Looking at the object, he realized that it was not just a random piece of metal shrapnel. This had a very distinct shape, one that Jonathan Crane had come to loathe over his years as a costumed criminal.

_Oh no..._

Scarecrow let out a low growl. "Cutting it a bit close, aren't we Batman?" he hissed, removing a small aerosol canister from an interior pocket in his trench coat and turning to face is assailant. He was met only with darkness.

Robin took in the tall man's appearance from the shadows of the dilapidated warehouse. From what he saw, it was safe to say that he was a little more than just slightly unnerved. Was this really the same gaunt, red-haired man whose mug shot he had seen on the Batcomputer? He knew it was, but it still came as a bit of a shock to see the ex-Professor of Psychology in such a ghastly getup. The man's burlapped face was shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat and a noose adorned his neck. He stood well over six feet high and wore a trench coat, a grey undershirt, and black slacks hanging over a pair of pointed black shoes.

"Not Batman," he said, stepping into the pale light cast by the open warehouse window. "Sorry to disappoint." Tim folded his arms, trying to look bigger than he actually was. Appearance was a big part of crime-fighting.

The Scarecrow looked slightly taken aback, not by fear, Robin noticed, but by sheer unexpectedness. From behind his burlap mask, the Scarecrow observed the young so-called vigilante before him. He frowned when he saw the small gas mask on the boy's face. _So, the boy had done his research_, he mused. Continuing his brief assessment, he concluded that the boy did not pose much of a threat due to his less-than-impressive stature. However, if this boy was good enough to be partnered with the Caped Crusader, Crane could not afford to underestimate him. Not when he had just gotten free of Arkham. It would be such an embarrassment to be sent back, by a _child_ no less, in less than four hours after his escape.

After a tense moment, the tall man relaxed his shoulders and lowered his arms to his sides, his right hand still gripping the canister. "I had heard the Bat had gotten himself a new sidekick, but I must say that _you _are not what I was expecting," the villain said humorously.

Robin narrowed his eyes as the masked man continued. "I was expecting someone more..._capable._" He hissed the word, purposely trying to offend the young hero.

Tim wasn't going to let the lunatic get to him that easily. He removed a metal rod from his utility belt and held it out horizontally in front of him. With a small click of an unseen button, the rod extended out from both ends into a five-foot wide staff. "I'm taking you in, Scarecrow. You can choose now to come quietly, or—" Tim was cut off by the wave of the man's skeletal pale hand.

"Oh spare me the empty threat. Lord only knows how many times your boss has said those exact same words to me," Scarecrow said, boredom lacing his words. Tim could practically feel the man rolling his eyes from within the shadows of his masks' eyeholes. His hands gripped the staff tighter and he gritted his teeth.

"He is not my boss! We're partners," said Robin, conveying more emotion than he had intended to. The Scarecrow chuckled in response, replacing the small fear toxin canister into his coat. The masked man's laughter made Tim's skin crawl. No wonder people were afraid of this man; he knew how to get under peoples' skin.

"Ah, problems with the big man, eh? Little birdie has decided to go solo, making a name for himself by taking down one of the 'Big Ones'. Seems like someone suffers from Atychiphobia—or maybe _Atelophobia_," he mused, seemingly enraptured in his diagnosis. "I'm also sensing a bit of Avoidant Personality Disorder as well," Scarecrow mocked Robin as he took a step to his left.

Robin pointed the staff's tip at the moving villain. "Don't move, or things _will_ get ugly for you," he said in his most intimidating voice. Man he wished he was older, and that his voice didn't crack in every other sentence. Oh that puberty...

The Scarecrow paused his sideways advance. "Neat toy, bird-boy. Care if I show you _mine?_" With a hiss, the masked man lunged to his left. Robin shot forward, only to be beamed in the side of his head by something hard.

Robin staggered backward, nearly falling on his backside. He brought a gloved hand to the side of his head. _That's gonna suck in the morning_, he managed to think before removing his hand from his hair and readjusting the grip on his staff. He turned back to the Scarecrow, who was retreating at full speed towards the staircase leading down to the first floor.

"Oh no you don't!" shouted Robin as he sprinted to catch up to the fleeing villain. He dropped his staff to the floor and fumbled for the bola attached to his belt.

_Got it._

The Scarecrow was ten paces ahead, nearly at the staircase. Robin skidded to a stop, brought his arm back, aiming as he swung the bola in a circular motion. He only had one shot, and he had to make it fast. No mistakes. This night would _not _be a total waste.

He brought his arm forward, releasing the bola. The two metal balls attached by the nylon rope spun forward in a blur, hitting their target in his torso. The villain let out a surprised gasp and hit the ground with a thud that shook the whole building.

Despite himself, Robin couldn't help doing a little fist pump. The Scarecrow was on the ground, his arms pinned tightly at his sides by the strong rope. His hat had come off his head and was now lying next to him on the charred wooden floor. He was attempting to stand, but Robin was on him in an instant. The villain ceased his struggling and looked up at the young vigilante from his position on the floor.

"Yeah...I don't think so," Robin said mockingly as he removed another piece of rope from his belt. Scarecrow kicked at him as he bent down to fasten the rope around the villain's thin ankles.

Eventually, after some badly aimed kicks and a slew of swear words from the downed man, Robin stood. He looked back down at the detained criminal and smirked; like an artist admiring his work. Stepping away several feet, he reached into his belt for his communicator. His thumb pressed the button that would call Police Commissioner Gordon. Robin held the device up to his head, waiting for the cop on the other end to pick up.

"Batman?" came the static voice.

"No, this is Robin. I'm calling for a pickup at 5318 N. Industrial Drive. I've apprehended the Scarecrow." From somewhere behind him, he heard an indignant scoff. Robin ignored the disgruntled villain and waited for the commissioner to respond.

"You apprehended Crane? All by yourself?"

Robin was a bit put-off by the man's incredulous tone, but replied stoically. "Yes, I did sir. Batman was...unavailable, so I decided to pursue him myself." The line was silent for a few seconds.

"Ah, well...good job, son. I'll send some officers down there pronto," said Gordon.

Robin nodded and said, "Thank you, Commissioner." Not used to being the one making the calls to the GPD, and not really knowing how to end the conversation, he said the most clichéd thing he could think of. "It was a pleasure serving you, sir. Have a good night." He cringed at his own awkwardness and moved to hang up.

"Wait."

Robin slid the communicator back up to his ear and replied, "Yes sir?"

"You did good tonight, son. This city appreciates your help in putting a stop to these lunatics. Your mentor trained you well."

Robin could feel the corners of his mouth turn up as a feeling of pride welled in his chest. After a second, he replied, "Thank you sir," then hung up. He pocketed the device and let out a tired sigh and turned to the villain. "Stay put. The police are on their way," he ordered. Robin was sure the man was glaring daggers at him from behind the burlap mask.

After a moment, the Scarecrow spoke up. "I liked the other Robin better. He actually _knew_ his place," he muttered.

Robin ignored the petty comment and walked over to where he had dropped his staff. In one swift motion he kicked it into the air with the toe of his boot and snatched it up. As he walked to one of the many open windows, he clicked the button on the side and the staff retracted into a small cylinder that he then clasped onto his belt. He turned and glanced back at the tied up villain.

"I _do _know my place. And now, so do you." Turning back to the window, he hopped up onto the ledge. He pulled out his grappling gun and fired it, disappearing from the open window and out into the night.

The Scarecrow watched the red-and-black clad boy vanish, seething from his sitting position on the floor. _The nerve of that brat! _he fumed. _Ruining my plans...tying me up. Who the hell does he think he is? Batman? Oh, he most definitely is __**not**__. _

He looked down to his bindings and groaned. He began to struggle against them again. When he noticed that the binds weren't constricting against his gyrating motions, he realized that it was just a piece of regular nylon rope. Years ago, Batman had gotten smart when he realized how easily the ex-professor could escape and made specialized rope that would constrict at even the slightest movement, making escape impossible. The brat must not have done as much research on him as he had previously thought...

A dark smile spread across the masked man's face. Sitting up straight, he began the relatively painless process of dislocating his right shoulder. He was relieved when he felt the rope slacken ever so slightly. To help further the process, he wriggled the rest of his body in ways that would make a squeamish person faint. After a several-minute battle with the rope, the Scarecrow emerged victorious. He brushed off his coat and made a move to adjust his hat when he realized it was not there. He looked down and nabbed his hat from the floor and patted the dust off of it before replacing it back on his head.

_The safe!_

Quickly, he made his way over to the metal box in the wall and entered the combination. Once unlocked, he pulled the door open and began filling his pockets with the $5,000 he had stored in the safe. He turned, patting his pockets to make sure that the money was secure, and ran to the staircase. He bent down to retrieve his wooden staff from the floor and took off down the creaking stairs, chuckling darkly to himself. _Foolish boy. Wait till you see what I have in store for you the next time we meet..._

He was still laughing as he exited out the warehouse's back door.

* * *

Tim awoke earlier than usual. He sat up from his laying position and quickly regretted it. His hand went to his head and he cringed at the painful bump he felt from under his unruly dark hair. He had completely forgotten about the blow he had received from the end of the Scarecrow's staff. After gently rubbing the injury, he threw the blanket off of him and bounded out his room and down the stairs, not even bothering to change out of his pajamas. Heading directly to the large living room, he happily plopped down on the tan settee. His hand grabbed the remote sitting on the arm of the couch and turned on the T.V. He punched in the number for _Gotham Live_.

Two old guys were sitting at a desk, talking about trivial things like politics and the state of Gotham. Bor-ing. Wasn't this the usual time that Summer Gleeson would be making a report on breaking news? Tim looked to the digital clock on the VCR. It read **7:04**. Tim looked back to the men on the T.V., still chatting away. He frowned. Maybe it was just late? Maybe they would wait to report it later in the day? It seemed unlikely. The people of Gotham would want to know right away if a notorious criminal was taken off the streets. _Maybe something went wrong_, thought Tim worriedly.

"You're up early."

Tim turned and saw Bruce entering the living room, fully dressed with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand and the morning paper held under his arm. He watched as the billionaire took a seat in his usual spot at the dining room table. "Yeah," he replied.

Bruce opened up the paper and took a sip of his coffee. "You seem awfully interested in the news lately," he stated in a slightly questioning tone.

Tim tensed. "Yeah, I figure I should start taking more interest in Gotham City. If I'm going to be protecting it, I might as well keep up on current events." That sounded believable, right? Bruce was silent behind him, making Tim nervous. _Crap, he sees through it!_

"I received a call from Jim Gordon last night."

_Oh my god, no!_

Tim swallowed the lump in his throat and turned his head to the side. "Really? Wonder why he would be calling about Wayne Enterprises so late..." From his peripheral, he could see the billionaire put down the paper and cross his arms.

"Not _that_ kind of call, Tim," he said.

Tim hung his head in defeat. _He knows_. From the dining room, he could hear the sound of a chair scooting against the floor. He tensed, and stood up from the settee. He knew what was coming.

"Tim."

He slowly turned to see Bruce standing, arms crossed, next to the dining room table. Tim's eyes were downcast as he trudged over to the waiting man. Stopping several feet in front of him, Tim slowly looked up, guilt written all over his face. Bruce only stared at him, his face a complete mask. Tim hated this look; it made him feel smaller than he already was.

"Gordon," Bruce began, "called me around nine-twenty last night. He told me that _Robin _had called him, saying that he had captured the Scarecrow." Bruce raised an eyebrow at the young boy in front of him. "Is that true?"

Tim tore his eyes away from the scrutinizing gaze he was receiving and absentmindedly wriggled his toes. "Yes. That's true," he mumbled.

"Tim. Look at me," said Bruce. "Please." Tim brought his face back up to the taller man. Bruce looked him over and sighed. "What you did...was very foolish. Do you know the danger you could have been in last night? Going after the Scarecrow alone?"

Tim winced at the man's words, but did not look away. "I knew the danger," he mumbled. "I looked up his file on th—"

"You _lied_ to me," interrupted Bruce. "You could have been seriously injured, or worse. And I wouldn't have known about it until it was too late. You can't just _do _these things, Tim. You even had Alfred lie for you."

"Don't blame Alfred, he didn't do anything wrong!" Tim quickly spoke.

"Lying about my ward's whereabouts _is _doing something wrong, Tim. What compelled you to behave in such a reckless manner? Talk to me, Tim," demanded Bruce harshly.

Tim felt like he was about to lose his composure and break down crying. "I... I wanted to prove myself," he said weakly.

"To who? Me? You don't need to prove yourself to me, Tim. I know what you're capable of," Bruce began, but he was interrupted by Tim.

"No. Not to you. To...everybody. No one takes me seriously unless I'm with you and even then, I'm only considered the sidekick," whined Tim, fighting away tears that were threatening to fall from his eyes. Bruce stared at him with his composed features. After a tense stare-off, the older man lifted a hand and placed it on Tim's shoulders. Tim looked down sheepishly.

"Tim. Tim, are you listening?" Bruce asked. Tim slowly nodded his head and looked back up. "Why do we do what we do?"

Tim thought for a moment before answering. "To keep the people of Gotham safe from criminals."

Bruce nodded and said, "That's right. We keep the criminals in check, and because of that this city is better off. Would it really make a difference if one of us was more popular than the other? Or if we were both viewed as equals?" he asked.

Tim thought on the older man's words. He hated how he was seen as second-best, as a _sidekick_, but deep down he knew Bruce was right. He shook his head. "No...it wouldn't."

Bruce held Tim's gaze for a moment longer before removing his hand from the boy's shoulder. "Promise me, Tim. No more going off on your own. Eventually there will come a time when you'll be able to; when I feel that you're ready."

Tim's eyes widened slightly. "So, you mean..?" Bruce nodded his head. "_When?_ When can I go off on my own?" Tim asked excitedly.

"For starters," began the billionaire, "after you've actually _done_ your research on the criminals."

Tim squinted his eyes in confusion. "Wha..? I did! I told you, I read the Scarecrow's file on the Batcomputer before I tracked him down. I—"

"So obviously you knew about the specific materials necessary to detain him, correct?" interrupted Bruce.

Tim pressed his lips into a thin line. "So... I may have skimmed a little..." he said evasively.

"And so, the Scarecrow got away," said Bruce.

Tim gaped up at the man. "_What?!_ How? I tied him up and everything. There's no way—"

"Professor Crane is able to contort his body in ways most people cannot. He's the reason I created the constrictive ropes and bolas. I'm guessing you _skimmed _over that minor detail?" said Bruce condescendingly. Tim rolled his eyes and groaned, bringing his palms up to his face. Bruce continued. "As you may have already guessed, Gordon contacted me last night telling me that Scarecrow got away before his officers could arrive. They found the rope and bola you used to detain him, and an open safe. Whatever was in the safe, the Scarecrow has it." Tim let out another long groan. "...That's why we are going after him," continued Bruce. "Tonight."

Tim removed his hands from his face and looked at Bruce. "We? So I'm not grounded?" he asked.

Bruce shook his head, a rueful smile growing on his face. "Oh I wouldn't say _that..._"

"Ugh. I knew that was coming..." moaned Tim. "_Okay_, what do I have to do?"

The older man crossed his arms. "For starters, I want you to apologize to Alfred for making him lie for you. And there will be an extra hour of practice every day for the whole month," said Bruce. Tim opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it.

He was definitely not looking forward to the next month...

* * *

**Atelophobia- Fear of imperfection**

** Atychiphobia- Fear of failure**


End file.
